


how can the sky be overcast in summer?

by evergreentrees



Series: still hurting, now healing [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 12:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evergreentrees/pseuds/evergreentrees
Summary: It's hard for friends to stay friends if one of wants more from the other. A new city, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, a constant of stress on her part, and given the fact that he started innocently sleeping over at her apartment, problems naturally ensued. Told in my first person, and based on a true story.





	how can the sky be overcast in summer?

**Author's Note:**

> This new collection I'm working on is a peek into my actual life, this work specifically is like a fresh wound since it happened very recently, so be kind please. I have changed my name and the name of this particular person for privacy reasons. Let me know what you lovelies think!

 

He was hurt, very hurt, so much so that I could feel the pain of every past memory uttered. I had never known anyone, in her life, who’d dealt with the degradation and instability he had. The physical and mental pain he endured was exhausting, yet he was uncommonly kind, telling me that if I ever needed help, he would be there. He’d come over to spend the night, and even though we both liked being alone, we both just needed someone nearby.

 

He was 4 months younger than me, immature to an expected level, but wise in ways I didn't think were possible with his age. It could be the fact that he had almost been attacked by a mountain lion before, along with about 7 other separate times he’d almost died. Amazingly, his outstanding traits were that he believed in reincarnation, was a county democratic chair, and functioned at a sub-par collegiate level. 

 

“I can’t wait to get off this planet,” He said to me while we lied barely awake in my bed. I had my head nestled in the crook of his arm, but he was turned away from me, given the sudden tension of our conversation. 

 

I had just told him I didn’t think of him romantically, that I needed a friend, that he was loyal and that I cared about him. Immediately after me saying that, he pulled his arm away from me, and turned his face towards the ceiling, pursing his lips and breathing in slowly.

 

I instantly felt the coldness, the action piercing through the cozy mood. I turned to face him, trying to read his mind from the blank stare that had overtaken his complexion.

 

After a while he stated, “I’m getting mixed signals from you—“

 

I was quick to interject, “Why is that?”

 

“Like—you tell me—and all this—and how much you like me and—,” the fact that his brain worked quicker than his words showed in this sentiment.

I knew why he felt like that, I didn't need an answer, I knew I was an overly affectionate person, but I had been up front with him from the start of the summer. I needed a friend, nothing more.

 

“I always wanted to be your friend, Derek,”

 

I tried wrapping my fingers around the hand he kept perched on his chest, but he didn’t reciprocate. It felt like a blow to the head.

 

“I wanted you,” He said quietly after some time. The heartache resounded in my chest.

 

I made the very mature and intelligent decision to change the subject, and we muttered on about Mars some more. He said how much he wanted to be as alone as possible, and the only way to do that was to fly to another planet. It was something we always talked about, anything to do with planets, space, and stars always crept into our late night conversations. 

 

“It’ll happen in my lifetime,” he said surely, the comedic tone had crept back into his voice for a second, and I couldn't help but crack a small smile. 

 

“I doubt it,” I confirmed, “and I don’t think you want that, you don’t think martians are just as shitty as humans?” 

God sometimes he was like an alien that came to Earth, only to be largely underwhelmed by humans, and ready to leave right away.

 

He caught my glance and held it there, his eyes looked more melancholy than an overcast morning, “I’d be just fine.”

 

My room was warm, expected for Texas in August, and he stripped off his t-shirt without saying a word, getting back into bed but keeping his distance from me.

 

It was like whiplash to me, his nature now, even though in times before, he couldn't get any closer.

 

Turning his back to me, I uttered a “goodnight” to him, knowing that he wouldn’t reply, but maybe then again we just needed to sleep. I placed my hand on his bare back that was turned toward me, feeling the heat radiate from his body straight to my palm. It still felt foreign to touch him. Just an hour ago I was telling him how uncharacteristically kind he was, and he was saying how I was his paradox; that I made him think differently. Now, he was just as cold as ice, and his presence was freezing next to me. 

 

What lies he said when he called himself a radiator, how he was so warm all he time. 

 

“I can’t wait for winter to come,” he had said when he held me a few nights before, right before I had drifted off, “then I’m gonna want to stay here forever.” He had pulled me closer.

 

Those sentiments felt a million miles away now.

 

We fell asleep in silence, not like the night before where we had stayed up asking the most ridiculous questions to each other, his laughter filling my bedroom.

 

I could hear his heavy breathing after a while, and I wanted to put my hand somewhere on him, mainly because it didn’t feel right not to. I never understood when people would say the person next to you can still feel so far away—I understand that now. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.

 

“I don’t think we should do this again,” his voice broke through the darkness in my room. 

 

I lifted my hand softly off his shoulder, “Okay,” I whispered, before settling into sleep.

 

He had woke up before me the next morning. Opening my eyes, I noted that he was laying on his back, tapping his phone and looking up at my ceiling. I said good morning in a uplifting tone, hoping that what we had exchanged last night was actually a dream. 

 

His thin lipped expression and half-hearted wave indicated otherwise. 

 

I glanced at his fingers, then his hair, then his eyelashes. I wanted run my fingers over his closed eyes, only for him to put his hands over mine, then bring my fingers down to his lips to kiss them. He had done that once before.

 

“It’s supposed to rain around 4,” the tone of his voice was more monotone than ever as it broke through my thoughts.

 

“I can’t believe we were actually talking about the weather,” I thought to myself.

 

“Hmm, oh, okay,” I replied calmly.

 

The rest of the morning consisted of us laying in my bed—me looking at him, trying to get him to reciprocate any kind of touch. Nothing happened, he had made up his mind, and I could feel the pain he felt. I was thinking about taking everything back, saying I wanted him too, telling him I cared about him so much than he realized, that I didn’t want to be on the list of people who’ve hurt him. That I wanted to be his, but I didn’t—I couldn’t. I knew I would regret, I knew in the end he wasn't right for me, and I would be selfish to tell him otherwise.

 

I was in the process of wrestling with change: moving, leaving my family, starting school in a new city, everything just too new. I needed a new friend, someone to help me understand some of the new things, and he was there, but I could feel his presence slipping.

 

I remembered our first conversation when I invited him over—

 

“I could use a friend,” I had said.

 

“Yes ma’am,” He had replied.

 

This morning was the last straw though. I was running my fingers up and down the nape of his neck, before I heard his voice, muffled by my pillow, saying, “can you please stop touching me.”

 

I pulled my hand back quick, and laid there shocked for a bit, then turned my back towards him and tried to fall back asleep. A ball wove itself up in my throat, tangled by all the things he had done and said this summer.

 

I felt a scoff leave my mouth, thinking to myself, “and he thinks I give off mixed signals?”

 

My bedroom felt so empty, deprived of all the times I called him endearing. Empty, not like the time he called me “love”, the rest of the sentence getting caught in his mouth. Empty, even though the night before he was running his hands through my hair, telling me quietly, “You know I would never hurt you, right?”

 

Without a beat lost, I’d said, “I know.”

 

Any amiable feeling I had left over was destroyed when he pulled himself off my bed and said, “I think I should leave.”

 

I shut my eyes and let a breath out, I knew it was inevitable.

 

He got up and walked around my bed to his backpack, loading his water bottle and things in it without a care. I opened my eyes and watched him carefully, waiting for him to say something to me, anything.

 

I spoke instead, “do you want me to walk you out?”

 

His answer came instantaneously, “no.”

 

I watched him walk out of my room, down the hallway to my front door, he didn’t stop or retreat or hesitate at all.

 

When I heard the front door latch closed, I cringed. The pillow next to me, the one he had been sleeping on, still smelled like him, I pulled it close and inhaled, letting the cushion catch my tears. I cried because I pitied myself, that he had somehow found someone who known my soul before I had, washed its garden soil wet to take care of it, as if he’d been there before. Even though I've taken care of it myself this long, and I'd let him help, but he couldn't anymore.


End file.
